that is from the soul. His soul is born
again."

The old governor smiled and turned. Edward Conway, wounded, was
sitting up. The governor grasped his hand: "Ned, my boy, I've
appointed you sheriff of this county in place of that scallawag who
deserted his post. Stand pat, for you're a Conway--no doubt about
that. Stand pat."

Under the rock wall, they found a man, dead on his knees, leaning
against the wall; his gun, still cocked and deadly, was resting
against his shoulder and needing only the movement of a finger to
sweep with deadly hail the cotton-bales. His scraggy hair topped the
rock fence and his staring eyes peeped over, each its own way. And
one of them looked forward into a future which was Silence, and the
other looked backward into a past which was Sin.

CHAPTER XXV

THE SHADOWS AND THE CLOUDS

When Richard Travis came to himself after that terrible night, they
told him that for weeks he had lain with only a breath between him
and death.

"It was not my skill that has saved you," said the old surgeon who
had been through two wars and who knew wounds as he did maps of
battlefields he had fought on. "No," he said, shaking his head, "no,
it was not I--it was something beyond me. That you miraculously live
is proof of it."

He was in his room at The Gaffs, and everything looked so natural. It
was sweet to live again, for he was yet young and life now meant so
much more than it ever had. Then his eyes fell on the rug, wearily,
and he remembered the old setter.

"The dog--and that other one?"

He sat up nervously in bed, trembling with the thought. The old
surgeon guessed and bade him be quiet.

"You need not fear that," he said, touching his arm. "The time has
passed for fear. You were saved by the shadow of death and--the blood
letting you had--and, well, a woman's lips, as many a man has been
saved before you. You'd better sleep again now...."

He slept, but there were visions as there had been all along. And two
persons came in now and then. One was Tom Travis, serious and quiet
and very much in earnest that the patient might get well.

Another was Tom's wife, Alice, who arranged the wounded man's pillows
with a gentleness and deftness as only she could, and who gave quiet
orders to the old cook in a way that made Richard Travis feel that
things were all right, though he could not speak, nor even open his
eyes long enough to see distinctly.

A month afterward Richard Travis was sitt